


Memory Lane

by Anyawen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF mrs hudson, Cake, Don't copy to another site, F/M, M/M, Mention of Domestic Violence, Mention of torture, Mentions of alcoholism, New Beginnings, Plans, Ulterior Motives, actions speak louder than words, and wedding plans, hidden identities, john's favourite colour is aubergine, mention of attempted sexual assault, mention of canon suicide (faked), mention of drug use, mrs hudson is not just a plot device, mrs hudson ships johnlock, spousal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25875307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: Mrs Hudson recognises a face from her past in the boys' present. She brings it to their attention and assists in handling it like the BAMF that she is.
Relationships: John Watson & Sherlock Holmes, John Watson/Mary Morstan, John Watson/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 67
Kudos: 146
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. The Past: Sharing Stories

**Author's Note:**

> For the ladies of the Coven - J_Baillier, 7PercentSolution, and ASilverGirl. Thank you for putting up with me :) With extra thanks to J_Ballier, who saw early drafts of this *months* ago before I got distracted and let it languish ... your patience is much appreciated :)

“Oh, good morning, Mrs Hudson,” John said as he entered the foyer of 221B. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“John, hello,” Mrs Hudson replied, face crinkling as she smiled broadly. She was just pulling the door to her flat closed, a large photo album tucked under one arm. “I only got in about an hour ago. All the trains were on time this morning, if you can believe it.”

“How was your visit with your sister?” John asked, perching his hand on the balustrade.

“It was lovely—well, apart from her sciatica flaring up. Are you here for a case, dear?” 

“No case today, Mrs H. I was, uh, actually stopping by to ask Sherlock to be my best man,” John answered with a smile that felt oddly awkward.

“Oh, won’t that be lovely,” Mrs Hudson replied, her tone strangely flat. “Could I trouble you to carry this upstairs for me?” she asked, holding out the old photo album.

“Of course,” John replied, taking it and motioning for her to precede him up the stairs. “Family photos?”

“Something like that,” she agreed, starting up the steps. “Liv has been storing some things from my years in Florida for me. Didn’t want to get rid of them, but didn’t really want to have them too close; I’m sure you understand. Only there’s something in there that I thought you should see.”

“Oh?” John asked, trailing behind her.

“I was going to show Sherlock first, to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, but as you’re here now, it seems best to show you both.”

“All right,” John replied. “Any hints?”

“Did Sherlock ever tell you how we met?” she asked as they reached the landing.

“Not really, no,” John answered, taking the apparent non-sequitur in stride. “Only that he insured that your husband received a death sentence. I take it he wasn’t a very good man.”

“Oh, heavens no, not a good man at all. He was a ‘kingpin’ in the Miami drug scene. I kept his books for years after he insisted I stop dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“Erotic dance, dear. Striptease and the like,” she replied without missing a beat, then looked over her shoulder and gave him a saucy wink.

John paused on the stairs and took a deep breath. That was an image he’d like to scrub out of his brain. Sometimes he wished he could delete things as Sherlock claimed he could do.

“Anyway,” Mrs Hudson continued as they came to the door of the flat, “one evening, I saw one of my husband’s business associates slip something into a young man’s drink. I’d never liked this associate. He liked to brag about his conquests, always talking about how he enjoyed a challenge. It didn’t take reading between the lines to understand what that meant. He considered the word ‘no’ to be foreplay. He was an abusive bastard —a sexual predator— but he brought in enough business that nobody ever intervened.

“That night, though, I saw what he was up to, and decided I wouldn’t let him get away with it. I couldn’t save all his victims, but I was going to do right by this boy. By the time I got there through the crowds at the club, the drink he’d tampered with was about half gone, and the young man was beginning to stumble and sway a bit. I knew right away what had to be going on.”

“Mrs Hudson cleverly managed to knock into me and spill the rest of the drink right down my front,” a familiar baritone interjected as they reached the door to the flat. “She then hauled me back to her office, insisting that she had a shirt my size that I could change into. Instead, she locked me into the counting room and went back out to tell my would-be assailant that I’d come over sick and taken a cab home,” Sherlock said, picking up the narrative as he met them at the door. 

John smiled to see him, camel dressing gown over a dark shirt and trousers, holding a blowtorch in one hand and what appeared to be a human eyeball in tweezers in the other. He was glad to see that Sherlock was at least wearing safety glasses, if not gloves.

“Why are we bringing up this ancient history?” Sherlock asked, putting the eyeball down on a tray and shutting off the torch.

“I was just explaining to John how we met,” Mrs Hudson replied primly, making herself comfortable in Sherlock’s preferred armchair and motioning for John to sit down opposite her.

He did, hands still wrapped around the photo album he’d apparently forgotten, fascinated with this peek at Sherlock’s history, though he was horrified at the thought of the near-assault that had led to Sherlock’s acquaintance with Mrs Hudson.

“He’d been something of a regular, you know? Even more beautiful than he is now, if you can believe it. Buying drugs and dancing. I’d seen him around and liked hearing him talk — a familiar accent in all that American noise, you understand. I didn’t know him, and couldn’t afford to worry about another bright young thing ruining his life with the poison Frank sold. But I was not about to allow him to be drugged and assaulted when I could do something to stop it.”

“After I slept it off, I started keeping an eye on her,” Sherlock continued. “It seemed curious at first that she appeared to be in no danger from the idiot who’d tried to drug me, nor from others like him. I soon learned that it was because her husband was not someone they were willing to cross.” Sherlock said, cocking a hip to sit on the edge of the sitting room table. “There was, however, no one to keep _him_ in check when they were at home.”

“No,” Mrs Hudson agreed, “there wasn’t.”

“He hit you?” John asked. “He hurt you for helping Sherlock?”

“Not for that, no. I don’t think he ever knew what I’d done for Sherlock. Sherlock wasn’t on his radar at all, just a random customer.”

“But your husband did hit you?”

“Not often.”

“Even once is one time too many,” Sherlock growled.

“Yes, well. You made sure he paid for it, even if that wasn’t what put him on death row.”

“What was he charged with, then? I didn’t know the Americans had the death penalty for drug offenses,” John said.

“Not for drug offenses, no, but they do for contract murder,” Sherlock replied.

“Which brings us to the photo I want you both to see,” Mrs Hudson said.

“How so?” John asked, hands sliding over the cover of the album in his lap.

“One evening, I’d forgot my handbag in the office, and interrupted a meeting when I went back to retrieve it. Frank was talking with a young woman about arranging a hit on a business rival. He wasn’t so careful about what he discussed in my presence anymore, not since I started handling his books. I knew enough incriminating details about his business through the money trails that he didn’t bother trying to hide things from me. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen the woman at the club, but it was the first time I realised what her business was.”

“And her business?” John asked. “Contract murder? Assassination?”

“That’s what they were discussing when I went in to collect my handbag. She wasn’t at all happy about the interruption, but Frank just waved me out. Joseph Phillips, who had been trying to buy his way into what Frank considered ‘his territory’, was shot and killed not a week later. The news said it was a small caliber round from a distance. They never said the word sniper, but I suppose they didn’t really have to. At any rate, I never saw her at the club after that, so I don’t know if my husband used her services again. I put her out of my mind and went back to business as usual.”

“Business as usual,” John echoed, bemused. “What made you decide to leave Florida?”

“Oh, well. It wasn’t so much my decision to leave as it was Frank discovering that I’d skimmed a little bit off the top of one of his business deals. Just enough to send to my sister so she could get her roof re-thatched. He wouldn’t be convinced that I hadn’t been stealing from him all along, and had me confined at home while he went to take the books to an accountant he could buy off. I knew the boys he set to guard me, and invited them to just sit and watch the baseball game. Gave them a beer and said I’d just go make some sandwiches, and then I sneaked out the back door and ran. I had just made it to the Greyhound bus station when Frank caught me. The accountant was still working on the books, but Frank took my running as proof that I’d been stealing from him. He dragged me back to the club, where he very nearly killed me.”

“The club was closed when he brought her there. I was outside, waiting for it to open so I could score a hit. He came out about an hour later, his hands showing signs of violence. Mrs Hudson wasn’t with him. I broke in and found her in the back. He’d beaten her and left her for dead,” Sherlock said, reaching to lay a hand on Mrs Hudson’s shoulder. “She spared me from an undoubtedly nasty experience, and I was able to help her. Quid pro quo.”

“It was a little bit more than that, I think,” Mrs Hudson replied.

“It may have been,” Sherlock allowed with a small smile, which Mrs Hudson returned, reaching to pat Sherlock's hand on her shoulder and turning back to John.

“Sherlock got me to a hospital. He checked me in under the name Hudson, and that’s what I’ve used ever since. Then he got in touch with that brother of his and arranged to pay for my hospital bills. I understand there was a bit of a bargain struck in exchange — Mycroft demanded that Sherlock return to England, go into rehab, and make an effort at getting off the drugs, and in turn, he would take care of the costs of my immediate medical care and later facial reconstruction surgeries. There were four of them, all told, and then a marvelous bit of plastic surgery to minimise scarring. I’m quite sure that’s why that woman from all those years ago didn’t recognise me. She hasn’t changed much, aside from a decade’s worth of wrinkles and her hair treated to a bit of blond out of a bottle. It was just so unexpected, seeing her again, and in such a different context … it took me a few days to place her.”

John glanced at Sherlock, who had been scowling at the mention of Mycroft and the bargain struck to trade Mrs Hudson’s medical needs for Sherlock’s drug rehab. The detective now sat disturbingly still, hand on Mrs Hudson’s shoulder, face blank, blinking furiously.

“Who didn’t recognise you, Mrs H?” John asked, concerned, both about Sherlock’s odd reaction and the details and revelations of Mrs Hudson’s story.

“The woman who had been in the meeting with Frank. The assassin. I was sure I must be imagining things, but after she came around a second time and she still seemed familiar, I checked.”

“You checked?”

“Made the trip out to see Liv in Manchester just to have a look at these old photos,” Mrs Hudson said, gesturing at the book John still held. “That one had what I was looking for, though with my old eyes, I’m still not positive. I wanted Sherlock to confirm it or see if I was misremembering. You’ll know best, John, I think. Just flip through that book, won’t you?”

“How will I know who I’m looking for?” John asked, cracking the book open and looking at the pages of yellowing photographs.

“It’s about half way through the album — a photo with a half dozen or so people around the bar. Not a posed shot, just a snap someone took when we were about to open one evening. Frank is standing next to me, though you might not recognise me before the surgeries. I’m wearing a sleeveless blouse with a zebra-striped pattern, and a black pencil skirt. Oh, and a pair of lovely red heels for a pop of colour. I had long hair then, too — so long! There are a couple of men standing at the bar, backs to the camera. One of the dancers was there, talking to Frank. On the other side of the bar there’s a woman …” She stopped when she heard John’s gasp.

“There must be some mistake,” John breathed, tearing his gaze away from the picture in the album to glance at Mrs Hudson in disbelief before his eyes were drawn back to the photo. “This can’t be her. How could it be her?”

“I certainly hope it’s not,” Mrs Hudson replied kindly. “Does she have a sister, your Mary? A twin, perhaps?”

“No. No family at all. Orphaned as a child,” John answered.

He looked up at Sherlock, who appeared dumbfounded.

“You didn’t recognise her?” John asked. “From the club?”

“That was a year or so before his time,” Mrs Hudson explained. “That photo was taken in late 1998. Sherlock only started coming around the club in … 2000, wasn’t it?”.

“February,” Sherlock agreed, extending a hand for John to pass over the photo album. “Even had the timing been right, I may not have noticed her. Unless she was a dealer, the only time I paid attention to women at the club was to tell them I wasn’t interested.”

He turned the album around and a moment later his nose was practically touching the page as he poured over the old photo with his pocket magnifier.

“Same brow structure, same eyes, same pinna formation … Pinnas don’t lie, John!”

“I’d heard her referred to as Roz, or maybe Rose,” Mrs Hudson said over Sherlock’s muttering. “She occasionally came in with a man — dark hair and skin, and lovely warm brown eyes. He came to the club a time or two after she stopped coming in. I never did hear his name, though I think he was referred to by his initials — AJ?”

John nodded, only half hearing her over the strange ringing in his ears. He so very much didn’t want to hear what she was saying that his mind was inventing sounds to block it out. He tried to retreat to slightly safer topics of conversation.

“So, Sherlock took you to hospital, and Mycroft paid your medical bills … How did your husband end up on death row?” John asked, ignoring the gnawing dread in the pit of his stomach, and trying to focus on Mrs Hudson’s story rather than on the way Sherlock was growing quieter and more ashen-faced as he continued inspecting the old photograph.

“Sherlock stole the books back from the accountant, and used them to find records of transactions made to pay for hits on rivals and other ‘annoyances’ that Frank said plagued him. He turned copies of the records over to the police. They found enough evidence to convict him for six counts of murder-for-hire. I never even had to testify,” Mrs Hudson replied. “Of course, I didn’t know any of this at the time. I was in hospital, recovering under an assumed name, and woke to the news that Frank had been arrested. Sherlock had returned to England by then, to attend rehab. There was a letter left for me that explained where he’d gone, and told me to look him up when I eventually, inevitably, returned to England.”

“Did they ever track down the hitmen Frank used?” John asked. “The woman?”

“Not her, no,” Sherlock responded. “They did eventually find a man who had taken two contracts with Frank. He was convicted of murder and is currently serving his sixth year of a life sentence.”

“But not her.”

“There was no reason, then, to be looking for her in particular,” Sherlock answered. “I might have dug deeper into the matter if I’d been there. Mycroft allowed me two days to stay with Mrs Hudson in hospital after I’d turned evidence over to the police before insisting that I board a flight and take up residence at an in-patient facility in Cornwall,” Sherlock said, sounding resentful. “By the time I was out, Frank had been convicted and Mrs Hudson had returned to England. Tracking down the hired guns was no longer a priority.”

Sherlock pushed the photo album away and looked at John. John hated the hesitancy in Sherlock’s gaze. He knew what it meant.

“John,” Sherlock began.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” John said, nearly biting out the words. “How can it be? She’s a _nurse_ , for god’s sake. She’s warm, and soft, and likes kids, and animals. Sings in the bloody shower! How is she _an assassin_?!”

“John, you’re a doctor who went to war. When you were invalided home you fell in with a sociopath who chases down criminals as a hobby. You are abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people. Isn’t it possible that you were drawn to Mary because you saw something of that in her?”

“ _You_ are not a sociopath,” John snapped, stabbing a finger at Sherlock, then, shifting his focus he pointed at the photo album on the table, “and _she_ … She was .. She was supposed to be nothing like that!”

John realised he was shouting, and sat back in his chair, sliding his hands under his thighs and breathing deeply to try to calm himself.

“She was supposed to be the opposite,” he barely whispered. “The opposite of everything I lost when you died.”

He could nearly feel Mrs Hudson’s concerned sympathy as a physical touch. The weight of Sherlock’s contrition, and his caution as he examined the evidence and reached unwelcome conclusions, choked the air.

“The photo is hardly conclusive proof, and eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable,” Sherlock said, shushing Mrs Hudson’s protest. “However, when considering certain things we’ve never managed to discuss … I think she may very well be the woman pictured here.”

“Things? What things?” John asked, knowing what Sherlock meant, and afraid to finally hear the answer to the question he’d asked the night Sherlock returned.

He watched as Sherlock steeled himself before speaking.

“There was a sniper on you the day I jumped off the roof of Bart’s,” Sherlock said softly. His expression was determined, but his tone was gentle, almost apologetic. “That’s the ‘why’ of it all. Moriarty had snipers on you, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. If they didn’t see me jump, they had orders to shoot.”

“Jesus Christ,” John groaned, standing and pacing the sitting room.

“I let you think that I had died because they had to see that genuine reaction to believe it. As long as they thought I was dead, they weren’t looking for me, and I could dismantle Moriarty’s entire operation. It all had to be rooted out, and they couldn’t know I was coming. It was the only way to be sure you were safe. I unraveled the network as quickly as I could, though I do admit that I dropped out of the hunt when leads on the snipers cropped up. I was … motivated to be sure they were caught and dealt with,” Sherlock explained. “I caught up to Mrs Hudson’s sniper in Venezuela, Lestrade’s in Hong Kong. I had a lead on yours when I was caught by a rather unpleasant, unrelated organization in Serbia. Mycroft pulled me out of that and brought me home to deal with his ‘Underground Network’ terrorist plot.”

John stopped pacing and stood, gaping at Sherlock. He hardly knew what to ask about first.

“You were caught? Captured?”

“Twice. The first time, in Laos, I managed to get myself out.”

“And Mycroft pulled you out the second time, and brought you home? For that case with the trains and the bomb under Parliament?” John asked, aghast as certain dots connected. “He brought you home from captivity in Serbia and you came to find me to help with the case. Were you injured?”

“John,” Sherlock began, raising a hand in a placating gesture.

“Oh, my God. You were injured, and I attacked you! Knocked you right over!” John said, feeling sick. “And you’d been off dismantling Moriarty’s network because they were going to shoot me? Us?”

John watched Sherlock struggle to find a way to not hurt him with his answer.

“Sherlock?” he asked, waiting for the other man to meet his eyes.

“Yes.”

“ _Damn it_!” John cursed, right hand scrubbing through his hair, left hand clenched into a fist.

Sherlock had saved his life, and he’d repaid him by attacking him when he was injured.

“John, you couldn’t have known. And I should have anticipated that your reaction would be coloured by my poor timing, and my attempt to make light of the whole situation,” Sherlock reassured. “At any rate, it’s in the past. All healed now, and I’m fine. _We’re fine_ , and we have a problem to deal with in the here-and-now that requires our attention — somewhat urgently, I might add.”

John turned away, body tight with tension, guilt, and anger. Sherlock was right — they did have a problem to work on, a case to solve. He would have time when this mystery surrounding Mary was wrapped up to properly apologise to Sherlock. He forced his clenched hand open and shook it out slightly. 

He turned back around and met Sherlock’s gaze, giving him a sharp nod. “Right. Soldiers today,” he said, returning to sit in his chair. “So, you unraveled Moriarty’s network until you were caught in Serbia while following a lead on the sniper who had been assigned to shoot me…” John swallowed hard and forced the words out, “…if you didn’t jump off the roof.”

“I had been tracking someone rumored to have been Moriarty’s second in command, and had thought to get information from them about the sniper. Then, I hit on a lead that suggested they were one and the same. That they were rogue CIA who had joined Moriarty’s employ in 2010, supposedly for what was meant to be a one-time assignment at a pool in London. Apparently, the position became something a bit more long-term, and more involved than a simple gun-for-hire.”

“CIA. _Bloody American_.” John spat out the word. “She always knows the answers to the American pop culture questions at the pub quiz. Told me she’d been bounced around in care homes, including two years spent with a foster mum from America. Watched a lot of American shows living with the family, picked up American slang and occasional American pronunciations. She slips, sometimes, using American spellings on patient records.”

“The CIA recruits likely candidates from anywhere and everywhere, but yes, it’s quite likely they’re American.”

“‘They?’ Not ‘she’?” John asked.

“My lead had no indication of gender. I’ll admit that I’d assumed male; balance of probability. But that’s all it was — an assumption. Given the photo and Mrs Hudson’s recollection … the timing could work. CIA agent picking up jobs on the side between assignments, working for one drug kingpin by taking out others — might still fit a twisted set of morals. Getting caught, going rogue — freelance assassin for hire. Coming to Moriarty’s attention and taking a job at the pool. Staying in the organization after that, climbing the ranks ... The job at Barts ...”

“But the rest? Since then? Why would she get close to me if I were her target?”

“If she was following Moriarty’s orders, perhaps she was checking to be sure I was dead.”

“But you’re not, and she obviously knows it now, even if she didn’t know it at first. She was there when you came back! If she really were the woman in Mrs Hudson’s photo, the assassin — _Moriarty’s assassin_ — why hasn’t she acted?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock growled from behind clenched teeth. “And _I don’t like not knowing_.”


	2. The Future: Making Plans

“How do we find out?” John demanded. “Can we get outside confirmation, somehow, that it really is her in Mrs Hudson’s photo? That she was the assassin her husband used? That she worked for Moriarty? That she is _still_ working for him?”

“Moriarty isn’t giving anyone orders.”

“How can you know that?” John asked.

“He’s dead. Killed himself on the roof so that I couldn’t force him to call off the snipers. Shot himself in the head right in front of me.”

“Right. Of course he did. Mad enough to think it worth his life to force you to play his game and ruin us,” John muttered. “So, if it’s her, she isn’t working for him, but she could be working for someone else?”

“You’re theorizing ahead of the facts, John. She could be working for someone else, yes, but, although she can’t be taking new orders from him, she may still be trying to complete the last job Moriarty gave her. Payment must have been made in advance.”

“But if she was the sniper, then her last job was to kill me if you were still alive.”

“Yes, those were the specifics,” Sherlock agreed musingly. “But Moriarty was not actually interested in you, dead or alive. He was interested in ‘burning the heart out’ of me, as he put it at the pool. He believed your death would do that, and … he wasn’t wrong.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” John echoed, stunned.

“No.”

“Then why am I still alive?” John asked.

“Because, if he meant to hurt me,” Sherlock said gravely, “there are worse things than your death.”

A heavy silence followed the words until Mrs Hudson cleared her throat. 

John looked at her, almost surprised to find her still in the room. She’d sat so quietly while they talked that he’d all but forgotten she was there. Fading into the background was a skill that had doubtless served her well in the life about which John had just learned so much. She’d survived by knowing how and when to keep a low profile. She might seem a bit flighty at times, but John had known better even before she’d come to them with the photo and her suspicions.

“Mrs Hudson?” John asked. 

“Wouldn’t your brother be able to help confirm Mary’s history, Sherlock? Or to determine if she is using a false identity? After all, he’s the one who got my paperwork sorted to become your Mrs Hudson.”

“He only built on the identity you’d already created, but I take your point,” Sherlock replied rather sulkily.

“Yes, well. I only created the details necessary for banking. He built the rest,” Mrs Hudson replied. “It just seemed that his government connections might be useful if you’re to be investigating false identities or rogue foreign agents.”

Sherlock scowled, but nodded. “Admittedly, he has access to resources that I don’t. It would be faster to put him on it.”

“Right, that’s what we have to do, then,” John urged, beginning to pace again. “We need to know as quickly as possible if Mary is who she’s said she is, or if she’s the woman in that photo. Jesus Christ. I can’t even go home until we know for sure. I’m a terrible actor, and she’ll notice immediately that something is wrong.” He shot a worried look at Sherlock.

“If she becomes suspicious, she’ll make a move. We can’t risk that. We can’t risk you––”

“Or you,” Sherlock interjected firmly.

John stopped his pacing and looked at Sherlock. After a minute he gave a small nod. “We need to know,” he said. “And until we do, I can’t go home. But if I don’t go home, she’ll become suspicious anyway.”

“You could leave town for a while, couldn't you? Just for a bit while Mycroft investigates,” Mrs Hudson suggested. 

“I can’t just leave town without a reason,” John replied, then looked to Sherlock. “A case, maybe? You’ve always got people asking you to come to Dover, or Bristol, or bloody Edinburgh to solve a case.”

“She’d want to come along,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “She was quite helpful last time. Seemed to enjoy it. If we fabricated a case, she’d likely want to help. And she’d want details; far too easy to be caught out in a lie of that sort. In any case, it’s probably best that she’s not left to her own devices if we’re both gone.”

“What, then?” John asked.

“Well, I went to go see my sister,” Mrs Hudson offered. “Perhaps you could do the same?”

“Harry and I don’t really get on,” John replied. “It would be a bit out of the blue to go for an unprompted visit when we aren’t very close. Mary knows that, and would want to know why I’d drop everything to see her.”

“An unprompted visit would draw Mary’s attention, but an emergency visit?” Sherlock mused. “If Harry called you, drunk but asking for help to stop drinking, you’d go. You don’t get on with Harry, but you’d drop everything to help her get sober if she really meant to try. And you could tell Mary that if she’s serious, this might help mend fences between you, and really you would like for your only living relative to come to your wedding.”

“Harry getting sober. Chance would be a fine thing,” John groused, but nodded. “That could work. Mary knows that Harry and I aren’t close, and that Harry’s drinking is the biggest reason why.”

“She’d believe it, and understand if you stayed there several days,” Sherlock said.

“Will that be long enough?” John asked.

“I’ll make sure of it,” Sherlock answered, pulling his phone from his pocket and scowling as he touched the screen and brought it to his ear.

“Brother, dear,” he said a moment later, an obviously artificial smile on his face and evident in his tone. “Won’t you stop by for tea?”

John watched as Sherlock rolled his eyes at whatever Mycroft said in response, and in spite of the situation and his worries about Mary, he couldn’t help but smile. He caught Mrs Hudson’s eye and noticed that she was smiling as well— not at Sherlock’s antics, but at John’s reaction to them. He rolled his eyes at her, and her smile widened.

“Insufferable prat,” Sherlock muttered, stabbing the disconnect icon and tossing his phone to land on the couch. “He’ll be here in half an hour.”

“Right, good,” John replied, rubbing his hands together.

“I’ll just go make tea for you boys,” Mrs Hudson said, standing and heading for the door.

“Thank you, Mrs H,” John said, reaching out to catch her hand as she passed his chair.

“Oh, it’s just tea, John,” she laughed.

“Not that,” John replied. “Well, yes, also that, but no. I meant, thank you for the photo, and the story.”

“I only hope I’m wrong,” Mrs Hudson replied, patting John’s hand.

“Yeah, me, too.”

John listened as Mrs Hudson’s steps retreated down the stairs and turned to look at Sherlock. He half expected to find the detective buried in examining the photo again, but instead the other man was staring at him intently.

“Sherlock?”

“She caught you as you were coming in. You were here for something. What was it?”

“Oh, well,” John said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’re nervous. Not about Mary’s past, but about whatever it was that brought you here today.”

“I suppose I am. Was,” John replied. “I was coming to ask you to be my best man.”

“Best man?”

“At the wedding. Stand up with me.”

“And this made you nervous?”

“It did. Does. It’s just … well, you’re my best friend, and there’s no one else I’d want standing beside me. It should be the easiest thing in the world to ask you, but ...”

“But?” Sherlock asked.

“God, I don’t know. It just feels bloody awkward,” John replied, dropping back into his chair. “It’s not supposed to be awkward.”

“Perhaps you should ask someone else?”

“No,” John insisted. “No. It’s you. It’s you or no one.”

“Then,” Sherlock replied, “it’s me. I should be proud to stand up for you, if you still want me to, after the things you’ve learned today.”

“What I learned today,” John said, taking a deep breath, “is how far you’ll go — how much you’ll sacrifice — to protect us. Me. It all only makes me more sure that you are the one I want at my side at my wedding … if there is a wedding. If it’s Mary in Mrs Hudson’s photo …” he trailed off, shaking his head.

In some ways, if it was Mary in the photo, certain things were simple. Not easy, not by any stretch, but simple. Other things, he was sure, would be more complicated, and infinitely harder.

If it wasn’t her, John wasn’t sure he would ever be able to make up for having doubted her, even if she never knew it. 

“Wedding plans,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Wedding plans. You’ve asked me to be your best man. I’ve agreed. Mary will not be surprised if I involve myself in planning for your big day. She’ll probably even be expecting it. Dates, venues, colours, flowers, cakes. We can get Mycroft’s input on the best London bakeries when he’s here,” Sherlock replied.

“I don’t think the best man is typically involved with the details––”

“John. When have you ever known me to be _typical_?” Sherlock asked, arching a brow. “And I suspect you have very little experience of undertaking such a role, yourself.”

“What, being typical? Or organizing wedding details?”

“Both. Either. Pick one.”

John chuckled. “Yes, all right, point,” he said.

“Besides,” Sherlock continued, “it’s the perfect way to keep Mary distracted during your absence. I suspect she will believe me to be overwhelmed by the honor, and deeply invested in making sure the wedding is everything you deserve — and she would be right on both counts. Of course, with you off dealing with Harry’s attempt at sobriety, I’d step in to pick up the slack with wedding planning. So many details that I may have to call or text her a dozen times a day, or just drop by with a stack of bridal magazines to go through with her.”

“And if it isn’t her, in Mrs Hudson’s photo––” John began.

“Then you’ll be stuck with whatever I arrange and select for your wedding,” Sherlock replied.

“I’m honestly not sure if that means it will be elegant and tasteful, or murder-themed,” John said with a chuckle.

“Why not both?”

“Yeah, okay. Both is good,” John laughed. “No aubergine, though.”

“Oh? I thought you liked aubergine.”

“I do,” John's good humor deserted him. “Just, not there.”

“All right,” Sherlock agreed, a thoughtful look on his face briefly before he refocused his attention on John. “You’ll head off to Leeds, ostensibly to visit Harry, and I will drop in on Mary to begin working on wedding plans while Mycroft makes himself useful investigating the woman in Mrs Hudson’s photo. Should he discover that there is no connection between them, you’ll have a perfectly planned, _possibly_ murder-themed wedding with absolutely no aubergine in sight.”

“Good. That’s. Um. That’ll be good,” John said faintly. “And if he does find a connection?”

“We’ll deal with that when we have to,” Sherlock replied. “If she is the assassin in the photo, and can be linked to Moriarty … I suspect you’ll have only the option of a prison chapel as a wedding venue.”

“If she is working for him, trying to hurt you,” John began, stabbing a finger into the arm of his chair, “there will be no wedding.”

Sherlock gave him a hesitant nod.

“I hope—”

“Yeah. I know.”

John watched as Sherlock clapped his hands together and rose, striding to the window and twitching the curtain aside.

“Right, then, we have a plan, and in just a minute, when Mrs Hudson lets Mycroft in, we can begin putting it into motion.”

The doorbell rang.

Ten minutes later, after Mrs Hudson had sent Mycroft upstairs and followed him with the tea tray, Mycroft put his cup down and looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock handed him Mrs Hudson’s photo album. Mrs Hudson explained why she’d brought it home for the boys to see while Mycroft flipped to the correct page.

Behind Mycroft, who was seated in John’s chair, John paced, waiting for the elder Holmes’ reaction.

“You’re awfully quick to believe the worst of your fiancee, Dr Watson,” Mycroft said, turning slightly to face John. His smile seemed to carry a hint of schadenfreude.

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” John retorted, then sighed, nodding an apology to Mrs Hudson for his language. “You’re not wrong. Not exactly right, mind you, but not wrong. Of course I don’t _want_ her to be the woman in Mrs H’s album.”

“Sherlock has a good eye, and is rarely wrong.”

John ignored the sound of Sherlock choking on his tea. He appreciated that Mycroft found the situation serious enough to speak plainly, without dancing around his respect for his brother’s skills.

“You’ve seen the photo. You’ve had eyes on me since I met Sherlock, which means you’ve seen Mary. Do you think it’s her?”

“I’m surprised you’d care for my opinion on the matter,” Mycroft replied. “Or need it, given Sherlock’s obviously told you the conclusion he’s reached. Unless you don’t believe him?”

“Not wanting to believe it is entirely different from not believing Sherlock,” John said, shoulders slumping. “It’s obvious he’s right, and you agree. It’s her. You can say it.”

“I think it highly likely, yes. I regret that I had not run a more thorough background check on Ms Morstan when you began your association with her.”

“I regret it, too.”

“I shall have the matter investigated immediately.”

“Lovely, that’s much appreciated, but how quickly do you think you’ll have results?” John asked, glancing at Sherlock. “I think we have a plan to get me out of town for a couple days, so Mary doesn’t realise that anything is wrong — she’d read it on me as soon as she saw me— but I can’t stay away for long without making her suspicious.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed blandly. “Assuming that she is who she says she is, It should be the work of a day, perhaps, to trace her background and confirm it. If, however, we run into anomalies, the timeline becomes more difficult to predict.”

“But, if you run into anomalies, that means she isn’t who she’s said she is. Regardless of whether or not she’s the woman in the photo, she isn’t the woman she’s claimed to be.”

“True,” Mycroft confirmed. “However, it is possible that any lies she may have told regarding her background are due to somewhat less nefarious reasons than we imagine in light of the photo.”

“Oh? Like what?” John asked, not sure if he wanted to grasp at the faint hope Mycroft’s suggestion offered.

“Witness protection, perhaps?”

John found that even in possession of what might be a valid reason for Mary to have lied about her past, he wasn’t at all hopeful. And, catching the look exchanged between Sherlock and Mrs Hudson he realised that even if it was possible, they didn’t think it likely.

And neither did he. Still, he had to give Mary the benefit of a doubt.

“Right. And you’ll be able to determine if that’s the case? If she’s in hiding because there’s a threat to her safety if she’s exposed?”

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed. “And while I’m looking into Ms Morstan, You mentioned a plan? To get you out of town in a way that won’t arouse her suspicions?”

“We figured I could tell her that Harry called, asking for help getting sober. Maybe trying to get into a rehabilitation programme. Mary would believe that I’d jump on that chance, and that I’d do it immediately. Should buy a handful of days, while you look into her past, yes?”

“That should be sufficient.”

“All right, good. So, I’ll just call Mary and tell her that Sherlock has agreed to be my best man, and then I’ll ask her to keep an eye on him and keep him out of trouble for the next couple days, because I’m going to Leeds to see Harry,” John said, pulling his phone out of his pocket and ignoring Sherlock’s indignant squak of protest at the suggestion that he needed a minder, even if that played into their plan. “I’ll tell her that Harry asked for help getting sober, and that’s not a thing I can ignore. I’m catching the next train and, after I get Harry settled in a program, I might stay for a day or two to be sure she has the support she needs.”

John startled as the phone in his hand buzzed. He glanced down and noted that his call history now showed a 17 minute call from Harry. Looking up he saw Mycroft sliding his blackberry into a pocket.

“Thanks for that,” John said.

“I thought it prudent,” Mycroft replied. “If Ms Morstan is in fact a rogue CIA agent, or Moriarty’s second-in-command, she will certainly check your phone, and she may have the ability to do so remotely. You’ll also find that your search history shows that you’ve spent some time investigating residential programs for alcohol rehabilitation.”

“Lovely,” John responded. “If only I could actually get her into one.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you’ll find something she wants enough to bargain with,” Mycroft said with a pointed look between Sherlock and Mrs Hudson.

“Blackmail isn’t really the best motivation,” John answered, but didn’t press the argument. Sherlock had accepted the trade Mycroft had offered, entering rehab in exchange for Mrs Hudson’s medical care. It clearly did, occasionally, work.

“I’ll be off, then,” Mycroft said, rising from the chair and straightening his cuffs.

“One more thing, before you go, brother dear,” Sherlock said, picking up Mycroft’s umbrella and holding it out to him. “Where would you recommend I take Mary for a cake tasting?”

Mycroft ignored the barb in the question, accepting the umbrella and offering a suggestion.

“Try Peggy Porschen. They don’t specifically offer wedding cakes, but their layer cakes may be sufficient. And if not, they may allow themselves to be motivated to offer one with the right word in the right ear.”

“I wonder whose word they might consider when taking such a request,” Sherlock quipped just as his brother’s footsteps began descending the stairs.


	3. The Present: Taking Action

“Sherlock!” John called up the stairs as he pulled the door shut behind him.

“He’s not here, dear, but he did tell me to expect you. You’re a bit earlier than he said,” Mrs Hudson said from the door of her flat.

“Where is he? Is he all right? Really? I know he said he was fine in his text, but he’s been known to ignore injuries before,” John said.

“He’s perfectly fine, John. He’s with his brother and Detective Inspector Lestrade. They’re dealing with the mountain of paperwork it apparently requires to take an internationally wanted assassin into custody. I’m told it might take a while,” Mrs Hudson replied. “Just go on upstairs and make yourself at home. I’ve got a batch of biscuits in the oven, but I’ll join you when they come out.”

“Oh, all right. Thanks,” John said, climbing the stairs as Mrs Hudson disappeared back into her flat.

Once upstairs, he hung his coat and slid out of his shoes, but found himself too anxious to have a seat in his armchair. 

The week of texting back and forth with Sherlock, keeping up to date with the investigation into Mary, and texting with Mary, keeping her from becoming suspicious, had been exhausting. Discovering that Harry actually was in an alcohol rehabilitation program was the only thing that had kept him sane. He hoped that he’d be able to get back out to Leeds to help her settle back in her flat when she was discharged from the residential program. If there was a chance to mend fences between them, he wanted to take it.

Right now, though, what he wanted was a full account of how Mary had come to be in custody with no shots fired. He nearly pounced on Mrs Hudson when she finally came upstairs, taking the tea tray from her and herding her over to Sherlock’s chair and pouring the tea.

“All right. While we wait for Sherlock to get home, tell me what happened?” he said, handing her a cup of milky, unsweetened tea.

“Oh, it wasn’t anything dramatic, John,” Mrs Hudson replied, blowing lightly on the hot liquid. “Only, Mary dropped by unexpectedly. She has been around a bit, what with Sherlock texting her constantly about the wedding and asking her over to work out details. But, Sherlock wasn’t home this time. He was out following up on a lead, so it wasn’t a planned visit. I was just coming back inside from taking the rubbish out to the bins and saw her let herself in. That was all the proof I needed.”

“What proof was that?” John asked.

“She doesn’t have a key, John,” Mrs Hudson answered. “Oh, I know you boys both pick locks, but most people don’t. Certainly I’ve never met a nurse who did. I knew Sherlock and his brother had found something and were trying to confirm it, checking to see if she was the woman from that old photo, but right then, I knew it was her. I’m sorry, John.”

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He’d known, of course. Sherlock’s text had said as much, but Mrs Hudson’s words made it feel real.

“Yeah, me too,” he said. “What did you do? Finding her here sneaking in like that?”

“Oh,” Mrs Hudson laughed, “I was my dotty old self, wasn’t I? Invited her in for tea and told her Sherlock would be sorry he’d missed her. I said that he’d been talking about colours and flowers and guest lists and seating charts and had been planning to ask her to come by to discuss caterers. And she groaned a bit but came in for tea.”

“Mrs Hudson, that was very brave, and very foolish.”

“Hush, young man,” Mrs Hudson replied. “It was no more dangerous than any of the mischief you boys get up to. And don’t go saying that you’re more fit or better prepared for adventures,” she continued as John opened his mouth to protest. “It was just tea.”

John closed his mouth and studied her. He could see an impish gleam in her eye.

“‘Just tea’,” he repeated. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Mrs Hudson chuckled and John circled his hand in the air, motioning for her to continue.

“Well, I told her to have a seat and went to put the kettle on, chatting about nothing and bustling about getting things ready. And texting Sherlock.”

“You texted him?”

“He made me swear I would, after that time the nasty American came looking for the dominatrix’s phone. Set up a code for me to send that meant ‘trouble at home’ - because I guess texting that wasn’t good enough.”

“Mary didn’t see you texting him?”

“Oh, of course she did, but then I told her what I was doing. Said I’d let him know that she’d dropped by and if he hurried, he could join us for tea, though I was out of his favorite quince jam.”

“Sherlock hates quince jam,” John said, frowning, then realized. “That’s the code?”

“Yes, dear. And he texted back that he’d be home soon with another dozen wedding magazines to go over with Mary. She rolled her eyes at me when I relayed the message, and I just told her to settle in and I’d make us nibbles to go with our tea. And that’s all I was going to do, really, until I saw her check your gun.”

“My gun?” John echoed, shifting forward in his seat.

“It was in her handbag. She pulled it out and checked the round in the chamber, then put it in the back of her pants, the way you do.”

“More easily accessible,” John said, then asked again. “ _My_ gun?”

“I might have been mistaken, given it was just a glance in a reflection, but Sherlock confirmed it later. It was your gun.”

“She brought my gun here, to wait for Sherlock,” John breathed, aghast.

He’d known before he arrived that Mary hadn’t been who she’d claimed to be. Sherlock had said as much in the text calling John back, and Mrs Hudson had confirmed it. Mary was the woman from Mrs Hudson’s old photo. An assassin. A contract killer whose last employer was James Moriarty, and who appeared to be planning to carry out her last orders in some twisted fashion.

It had been both difficult to imagine, and uncomfortably easy to believe that his snarky, mischievous, vivacious Mary was someone else altogether. Someone cutting, and cold, and sinister. He’d been wrestling with the idea, and how easily he entertained it, the whole time he’d been in Leeds. He’d come to realise that even if Sherlock’s investigation proved Mary to be the nurse he’d been ready to marry, there was never going to be a wedding. He might have regretted his doubt, but he could never forget it. Never move on from it or make it up to her. Either way, their relationship was over. Still, he’d hoped they were wrong about her, and that he could part with her on peaceable, if not peaceful, terms.

He’d already known that wasn’t going to happen when he arrived at Baker Street.

Still, hearing Mrs Hudson narrate events - Mary’s quiet breaking and entering, bringing a gun — _his gun_ — to lie in wait for Sherlock’s return … that made it all horribly real. And John realised that Mary hadn’t just meant to kill Sherlock with John’s gun, but to _hurt_ him with the knowledge that John’s gun would be his end. To twist the knife before driving it home. She wasn’t just cunning, she was _vicious_. He knew some part of him was grieving the future he’d thought lay before him, but at the moment all he could feel was revulsion, and relief.

“Well, there was no doubt in my mind that she was planning to hurt him, or worse,” Mrs Hudson was saying. “Of course, there was no way I’d be able to overpower her. All I could do was hope to incapacitate her, or even inconvenience her just a little. Just enough.”

“The tea,” John said. “You put something in her tea.”

“In the jam, actually. I put out jam and clotted cream for the scones, but I recalled from the discussions about the wedding menu that Mary is lactose intolerant, so I knew she’d go for the jam. And it was raspberry, which was the filling she’d chosen for the wedding cake—”

“Of course she did. My least favorite,” John muttered.

“Yes dear, I know,” Mrs Hudson replied. “But that meant she liked it, so I knew she’d eat it, especially given the other option.”

“What did you put in it?”

“I mixed that tiny bottle of ipecac syrup from the medical kit you insisted I keep into a dish of jam. I was fairly confident that it was safe enough, especially as she wouldn’t be getting a full dose. I only hoped it would cause her to become uncomfortable enough to put her off her game. Nauseated, maybe.”

“I honestly have no idea what to expect from that,” John said after a minute. “Low doses over time, with food … but it’s brilliant thinking.”

“I had a spoon of raspberry jam straight from the jar sitting on top of the dish and used that on my own scone before leaving the rest to Mary. She appeared quite pleased to have it - said it wasn’t in the house often because you disliked it. Twenty minutes of chatting and two scones later she sat back and fanned herself, saying she was feeling a little peaky, and she did look a little flushed,” Mrs Hudson said. “I took another spoonful of jam on my scone and got up to get her a glass of water. I put the last drops of the syrup into the glass before I filled it and brought it out to her. She drank about half of it while I nibbled at my scone with raspberry jam, then excused herself to the bathroom.”

Mrs Hudson set her cup in its saucer and reached for a biscuit. John took one as well, keeping himself from tapping his foot with impatience to hear the rest of the story. She caught his eye and smiled. He sighed. She’d clearly been taking lessons from Sherlock on dramatic tension.

“Well, she was in there with a bit of stomach upset I couldn’t help but overhear, but I could just make out the sound of the front door opening over the noise and knew that Sherlock was back. I got up to let him in and to make noise in the kitchen with the washing up so he and Detective Lestrade and that sergeant of his could come in and get positioned. The Detective went into my bedroom, out of sight behind the door, and his sergeant stepped behind the bookcase in the sitting room. Sherlock sat down at the table and poured himself a cup of tea, in plain sight and bold as brass.”

“Of course he did,” John said, leaning forward in his seat.

“When she came out, she was a bit shaky, but she stood up straight and smiled at him when she saw him. Until he greeted her as ‘Ms Rosamund Ashburn’.”

“At which point she reached for the gun her waistband and Lestrade promptly tazed her,” came Sherlock’s voice from the door. “A bit anticlimactic, actually.”

“I will _absolutely_ take anticlimactic over you stepping off a building or getting shot in the chest,” John said, setting his teacup down with a clatter and rising. He turned to see Sherlock as the other man smiled and pulled off his scarf and shrugged out of his coat.

“You’re really all right?” John asked, approaching Sherlock, reaching out to lay a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as the detective hung his coat and scarf.

“I really am all right,” Sherlock replied.

“Good. That’s good,” John said, pulling Sherlock in for a hug.

“John?”

“Just … Just shut up and hug me back,” John said. “I’m glad you’re safe. I don’t think I’d have survived losing you again.”

John relaxed as he felt Sherlock’s arms come up around him, his large hand sliding up his shoulder and cupping the back of his neck as John’s forehead pressed against Sherlock’s chest. They stood like that until the clink of a spoon on china recalled their attention to the room’s third occupant. Mrs Hudson was very pointedly not looking at them, but was also failing to hide her grin.

“Right, so,” John said, returning to his seat as Sherlock took the wooden chair at the table, accepting the cup of tea Mrs Hudson had prepared for him. “Rosamund Ashburn.”

“It was as we suspected from Mrs Hudson’s photos. Rosamund Ashburn, originally of Reno, Nevada, was an American CIA agent who was discovered to be taking jobs on the side. Disappeared before she could be arrested. Her partner, Ajay Chowdhury, was taken in for questioning and released on his own recognizance. He vanished three weeks later,” Sherlock said, pausing to sip his tea. “It would seem that the two of them partnered with a couple of other rogue agents, an Argentinian and a Russian, to form a small team available for hire for jobs ranging from kidnapping to assassination. They were highly sought after, occasionally even hired by the governments they’d betrayed —and others.”

“Others? Ours?”

“Mycroft couldn’t confirm it, but I suspect so, for their last engagement certainly, if not before.”

“What happened?”

“About four and a half years ago their group was involved in a hostage situation gone wrong at the British Embassy in Tbilisi. Her compatriots did not survive. Her involvement with Moriarty began shortly after that. I assume that she felt it advantageous to work within his organization rather than go solo following the loss of her associates.”

“So, she was working for him, then. At the pool? And … when you were on the roof?”

“Yes, and yes, and yes, still. I think after her associates were killed she felt exposed. She was alone, and vulnerable. Taking the position with Moriarty gave her stability. The organization provided her with anonymity and protection, and eventually, a position of authority, and for that, she gave him loyalty.”

“I would never have believed it if I hadn’t recognised her,” Mrs Hudson tutted.

“If she was loyal to him and his orders after his death, why did she wait to act on them once she knew you were alive?” John asked.

“She wanted to hurt me,” Sherlock replied. “Moriarty killed himself because of his obsession with me, and the organization she inherited fell into chaos shortly thereafter. In her mind, I’d effectively stolen both him and her inheritance from her. She went after you when she began to suspect that I was alive, believing, quite correctly, that I’d come to you first when I returned.”

“And you did, and I was overjoyed, and overwhelmed, and immensely angry. And I hurt you—”

“Water under the bridge, John. What matters is that she realised then my death is something that happens to everybody else. You’d be grieving, but I’d be dead, beyond her reach and unable to experience pain or suffering. That didn’t suit her. She still intended to kill me, but she wanted me to grieve first.”

“And …” John began, and trailed off. He looked away, down at the nearly empty cup of tea in his hands, over to the skull on the mantel, and back, catching Mrs Hudson’s eyes and seeing the sympathy there. “And she thought that our engagement —our wedding— would make you grieve.”

“She was perceptive,” Sherlock acknowledged. “Watching you choose someone else was … excruciating. But if she had been who she said she was, if she was what made you happy, it would have been worth it.”

John swallowed. He knew what Sherlock was saying. It was something he’d never expected to hear, since it conflicted with the message Sherlock had clearly given before. At least, it conflicted with the message he’d _spoken_ at Angelo’s years ago when they’d only just met. But what he was saying now was entirely in keeping with the care he’d taken and shown in his actions since then. Since before the sacrifice he’d made in his faked suicide at Bart’s. And the Fall itself, and everything he’d done since his return.

“The happiest I have _ever_ been was chasing you around London. She … Had she been who she pretended to be, she couldn’t give me that. She might have given me something different. Something nice. And I might have been content with that. But it wouldn’t have been the same,” John said. “And no, it wouldn’t have been worth it, to be content with something nice that hurt you.”

“You know, boys, you could stop all the dancing around and admit what I’ve seen from the start,” Mrs Hudson said, smiling.

“‘From the start,’ Mrs Hudson?” John protested, though he could feel the smile curl the corner of his lips as he remembered the moment she was speaking of. “‘If we’d be needing two beds, indeed’. We’d only just met.”

“And still, you were smitten. Both of you. It was obvious then, and it’s just as obvious now that you still are,” she replied.

John looked at Sherlock, who just tilted his head. Mrs Hudson wasn’t wrong —John had certainly been infatuated with his new associate, and time and further acquaintance hadn’t made that feeling fade. It had, instead, deepened it into something else. Something he still felt, even after the grief and the anger and the joy and the confusion of life after the Fall.

And now he had been made aware of the depth of Sherlock’s regard, and knew that all along, in deeds if not in words, Sherlock had felt the same way. John, who had heard the words spoken and overlooked the actions taken, hadn’t thought it possible, and so hadn’t ever really considered that his own sentiments might be returned. Now, though?

John should be reeling with the revelations about Mary, and their relationship, and the loss of that future. He wasn’t. He might feel guilty about that later.

“Well, now that we’re on the same page,” John said, smiling at Sherlock, “we might finally get to do something about that.”

John’s heart stuttered in his chest at the way Sherlock lit up at his words, and he couldn’t help but grin at the way Sherlock’s soft expression gave way to rolled eyes as Mrs Hudson clapped and cooed.

“Oh, my boys,” she said.

John chuckled and moved to set his teacup down on the side table, only to find the space occupied by Mrs Hudson’s photo album. He set his cup on the floor and picked up the album. Flipping it open, he spent a moment studying the picture of Mary —Rosamund— at the bar. Shaking his head, he closed the album and held it out to Mrs Hudson.

“Thank you for sharing this with us, Mrs H. It can’t have been easy for you, revisiting those memories.”

“There were bits I’d be happy to never think about again,” Mrs Hudson agreed, taking the album and laying it on her lap. “Mind you, Florida wasn’t all bad. I was a younger woman then, and not above chasing after something exciting, even if it skirted — or even stuck a toe across — the lines of legality. Just a toe, mind you, that’s all I’d do, though I had friends who straddled that line. And Frank, of course, who jumped right over it with both feet. Quite a bit farther than my little bit of embezzling.”

“I’m sure your sister appreciated what you’d done for her, especially given that it led to Frank’s violence against you.”

“She was grateful, yes, and let me stay with her for several months after I returned to England. She was even more grateful when I paid off her mortgage about a year later. That’s one of the reasons she keeps my old things for me. Feels that I ‘own’ the spare room to store things as I see fit.”

“You paid off the mortgage?”

“Right after I bought this place and saw I had money left. Better to have it spent than sitting around where it might be taken, I thought.”

John sat back, a small smile on his face.

“Mrs Hudson. I suspect that there’s more to your ‘little bit of embezzling’ than you’ve let on.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Let’s just say that Frank wasn’t wrong. I didn’t know if I’d hidden things as well as I thought I had, so when he took the books to an accountant, there was a reason I ran.”

“And when Sherlock provided evidence to the police, he never gave them the books he’d stolen back from the accountant, did he?” John asked, directing the question to Mrs Hudson while shooting an inquiring glance at Sherlock.

“No, I didn’t,” Sherlock replied. “They received the data they needed for their case against Frank and nothing more.”

“I didn’t know that at the time. I only knew that Frank was on trial and they had financial records tying him to contract murders. I left it at that and came back to England when my surgeries were done,” Mrs Hudson said. “When Sherlock got out of rehab he tracked me down, or had his brother do it. He was surprised to find me staying with my sister and trying to make ends meet. He reminded me that I had the means to move out of my sister’s house, and came with me to close out the accounts.”

John caught her sense of mischief as she paused in telling the tale and glanced over to Sherlock to see him grinning. He smiled.

“How did you do it, then?” he asked, giving her what she wanted. He chuckled at her wink as she continued.

“There was a day, some weeks after I’d spilled Sherlock’s drink on him to get him away from that boor, and months before Frank found out about the money, that we had a cup of tea together before the club opened. I was doing the books, and Sherlock was reading some American magazine. What was it about, dear? Soldiers? Guns?” she asked, turning to Sherlock. John noted the slight flush on Sherlock’s cheeks and turned back to catch Mrs Hudson’s impish grin. She absolutely knew what she was doing as she continued, “I’m sure it was something like that. At any rate, I closed the books and said something like ‘and that’s Mrs Hudson, sorted.’ Sherlock asked who I meant, and I said she was no one. Just a name on paper and not a real person. He didn’t ask any more, and I put the books in the safe and we finished our tea. It didn’t come up again until I woke up in hospital to find that was the name he’d checked me in under. I marveled that he’d remembered that snippet of conversation from months before, and wondered if he’d guessed who she was.”

“I never guess,” Sherlock said archly.

“Yes, you do,” John and Mrs Hudson replied in tandem.

Sherlock huffed in response.

“So?” John asked, turning back to Mrs Hudson. “Who was she, after all?”

“No one, then,” Mrs Hudson replied. “But after Mycroft worked his magic, she was me.”

“Which meant that she had access to the accounts she’d created under that name, and all the money in them,” Sherlock said.

John glanced up and caught sight of Sherlock’s shark-like smile. He turned back to Mrs Hudson and saw a matching expression on her face. He imagined that, if he were to look in the mirror, he’d find a similar smile on his face as well.

“You’d been siphoning money away from your husband’s drug business all along?”

“For years, dear. I knew he’d get caught eventually, and the police would seize everything. I just wanted to put aside enough to take care of myself if I was on my own. After I moved back to England and moved in with my sister, I was at a bit of a loss about how to get to those funds. I had the name Sherlock had coincidentally given me––”

“The universe doesn’t like coincidences,” Sherlock interjected. “And neither do I.”

“––but all the connections I had to the sort of people who might be able to help me obtain the documents I’d need to convince the bank were in Florida, and most of Frank’s old crew believed that Frank had killed me.”

“I found her at her sister’s house and reminded her that she had a government-built and approved identity, with all the documentation she could possibly need,” Sherlock said.

“He convinced me to come to London and visit the bank. I insisted he come with me, in case there was a problem with my paperwork and he needed to call his brother to get me out of jail. But everything checked out as he said it would, and I had access to the accounts. I bought this place about three months later, and a lovely car, and moved to London. Liv kept my things in the spare room, and I paid off her mortgage. That left me just about enough money to live on, though without much of a buffer. Possibly the car was a bad idea, but I’ve always been a fan of James Bond, you know? I couldn’t resist.”

John choked on air. “You… have an _Aston Martin_?” he asked when he stopped spluttering.

“A Vantage S in a lovely, flashy red. I’d have gone for a DB5, but they didn’t have one.”

“You have an Aston Martin,” John repeated.

“Yes, dear, I do. And because I have it, I needed to rent out the rooms upstairs. I had a young woman here for about a year and a half, but she took a job in Brighton and moved out. Then there was a lovely young man living upstairs for a year with more computers and gadgets than you could count. A gorgeous head of messy dark curls to rival our Sherlock, and mossy hazel eyes behind his glasses. Beautiful boy, if you like your men on the twinky side,” she said, shooting a knowing gaze at John before continuing, “but then I went for a long weekend visit to see Liv and came back to find the flat cleared out. A young woman in a suit came by shortly after I’d arrived home and delivered a letter explaining the tenant had taken a job that required him to move house, and a cheque that paid out the remainder of his lease. She reminded me a bit of your brother’s PA, now that I think about it,” Mrs Hudson said, turning to Sherlock. “Not in looks, mind you, but in mannerisms.”

“Government drones,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “Your former tenant either works for the government now, or is dead. Much the same, either way.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson tutted. “I was just about to put an advertisement out for the flat when Sherlock came by for a visit. His lease was up and his landlord was refusing to renew it because he’d lost other tenants over Sherlock’s middle of the night violin playing, and the odd smells coming from the flat, and the occasional explosion. I have no other tenants for him to scare away, what with the mould problem downstairs, and I’m a heavy sleeper, so his midnight concerts don’t bother me. I offered him the flat, and two days later he brought you home.”

“It was a rather auspicious beginning, wasn’t it?” John said, smiling.

“It was,” Sherlock agreed. “I wonder …”

“Wonder what?” John asked when Sherlock trailed off.

“There’s a spare room upstairs,” Sherlock offered. "We could ... begin, again?"

Sherlock’s expression was carefully neutral, but Mrs Hudson didn’t try to hide her enthusiasm at the suggestion.

“A new beginning?” John mused “I’d like that, yeah. I’d like that a lot.”

“Oh, John! It’ll be so lovely to have both of my boys back home!”

**Author's Note:**

> Am I headcanoning that before Sherlock checked her into hospital under the name Martha Hudson, our beloved 'not-your-housekeeper' was Mrs Frank Turner? Why, yes. Yes, I am.


End file.
